Hildy Gervais
by FacelessName
Summary: Pain, anguish, and anger were all a part of Hildy's life in the beginning. How could anyone from such a hellish background survive? Based on a minor character in Visser.
1. Default Chapter

A/N-This story is based on a character from Visser. If you haven't read it, you won't recognize the character, but the story will still make sense to you.  
  
As always, please R&R!  
  
~If you cooperate, human, I will give you a bottle.  
  
Yeah. A bottle. I wanted one of them. All I had to do was tell them about my life? And I didn't even have to beg for it.   
  
He only asked me about Essam. But I felt my mind going back much farther…  
  
"You little shit!" she screamed, swinging her fist at me.  
  
I ducked. Only six, my mother still blamed everything that happened on me. Dad, too, now that I think about it.  
  
I stood up, tears flowing down my face. She swung at me again, and her hand connected with my face. I fell down, crying.  
  
"Look at you! Pathetic! Always crying, boo-hoo, poor me! If it weren't for you, we wouldn't be getting evicted! Do you want them to take you away?"  
  
I sniffled. "N-n-no…"  
  
"Then quit your crying! Don't you know that'll bring them here?"  
  
The "them" my mother was speaking of was DSS. She always warned me about them. She told me they would do experiments on you if they took you away, and she said if anyone ever saw her hit me they would take me and cut me open. I hated the sight of blood.  
  
For as long as I could remember, I was told that it would be the worst thing in the world for them to come find us, and take me. I believed it…  
  
The landlord evicted us for not having our rent. We took our car and drove off.  
  
We lived in the car for about a week. My memories from then are sketchy. I can recall one time, sitting in the backseat with a burger in my hand but too scared to eat it. Dad told me that if I got one drop of ketchup on the seat he would send me to DSS. Naturally this petrified me. I didn't eat very much on that trip.  
  
We found a home after that. Mom said we were in Richmond, Virginia. I didn't know about anything like that. School didn't teach us much, and I didn't like learning.  
  
I was turned off from school from the first time they told us to report it if anyone hit us. They said they would take care of us. Ha! I knew better than that. They just wanted someone else to do experiments on.  
  
Every parent hits their child.  
  
I started going to school there. It all was fine for a couple years. When I was eight, (I don't remember what grade I was in now,) I got a new teacher. Her name was Ms. Kirkpatrick. She was very nice, or so she wanted us to think. But she was very nosey. She was always asking if our parents were nice or strict, home a lot or sent us to daycare.  
  
At first when I met her I was scared she worked for DSS. After a few months I figured she was just nosey. I was still as ambiguous as possible, at least, as ambiguous as an eight year old can be.  
  
One day we came in and Ms. Kirkpatrick seemed very sad. She didn't call roll, so I figured everyone was here, until I looked around.  
  
"Where's Mark?" I asked the girl next to me, Tiffany.  
  
She shrugged. "I saw someone come by his house yesterday. He left with them. I don't know why."  
  
My blood froze. Just then, Ms. Kirkpatrick came next to me and saw a bruise on my arm. I quickly tried to conceal it, but she saw it and grabbed my arm.  
  
"What's this?" she asked me.  
  
"I…I fell," I said lamely.  
  
"Hmm," she said, and walked away.  
  
That day I knew, I just knew, that she would take me away. Do experiments on me, claiming she was taking care of me. There was only one thing I could do.  
  
I ran away. 


	2. In the Wilderness

A/N~Thanks to my ONE person who reviewed...sigh. But hey I'm gonna keep writting anyway please please please R&R!  
  
The mountains of Virginia were forbidding to even the most experienced survivalists. I was just an eight your old boy, with a little bit of food he took from his house, a few changes of clothes, matches, and a steak knife. By all rights I should have died.  
  
The first night was the worst. I was too scared to go in a cave to find shelter, and had no choice but to lay on the ground and be soaked with dew. I kept on being faced with visions of a bobcat looming up in the darkness, ready to sink his teeth in my neck.  
  
I shivered. There was no way I was going to live through the night, much less the rest of my life. I heard a howl in the distance. Maybe a coyote.  
  
I clutched my jacket, struggling for a bit of warmth, praying for the sun to come up and make it warm again.  
  
Slowly the night dragged on. I survived.  
  
I realized that if I had any hope of living, I had to find shelter. I spent the next day walking as far from a town as I could, searching for a cave. Finally I found one, set in the side of a cliff. I could see most everything around me. It was unlikely that anything would be able to sneak up on me without my knowing it.  
  
I would have plenty of screaming time before I turned into prey.  
  
I gathered some wood and stared a small fire in the cave, close to the entrance so the smoke would go out. Some of the food I had brought from home, canned Vienna sausage, looked very inviting. I sat down and ate ravenously. Even my child's mind realized that I had to ration my food.  
  
But rations run out, I knew. I didn't know what I was to do then.  
  
I lived in the cave for several days, until my food was dwindling dangerously low. I had to hunt.  
  
My father was never exactly the bonding type. He would go hunting and leave me at him. I had no idea how it was done, and I could hardly see in the dark. Plus, I had no shotgun. Just a steak knife.  
  
I had seen several squirrels racing by earlier in the day. Could I catch them? No.  
  
A rabbit? Not likely.  
  
Then, there, I saw my ticket.  
  
A raccoon was waddling his way to the creek below, slowly, cautiously, moving almost like a cat. I grabbed my steak knife and crept down there.  
  
I didn't make it halfway before he heard me and darted off.  
  
I threw my knife down in frustration. It wasn't fair! I needed to eat, and he had the nerve to just run away!  
  
Pouting, I hiked back up to my cave. Thankfully it was still unoccupied. I opened my last can of Vienna sausage and ate one. I saved the rest, hoping nothing would get into it.  
  
I put out my fire, still disgusted at my inability to hunt. I went to sleep.  
  
Not too long after that, I was woken up by a noise. I sat up slowly, and what did I see? That dammed raccoon eating MY sausage!  
  
Well, I grabbed my steak knife and before that raccoon knew what hit him he had a knife in his side. He fell the short distance to the ground with a dull thud.  
  
I stood in shock for a few seconds. Then, it dawned on me. I had food! And it could last for several days, weeks if I stretched it enough!  
  
On that night I swore I would forever testify to the wonder of steak knives. I ripped the skin off the raccoon, (a gruesome task) and smoothed it out as best I could. It might make a good blanket or something.  
  
Sometime I had seen someone making jerky on TV, and that had stuck with me. I pulled out the main organs of the raccoon, (I didn't know what to do with them,) and smoked the rest of it. Then I set to work getting some of the meat off the skin to make jerky as well. By the time I had done most of what I had to, the sun was peeking over the horizon.  
  
I laid the raccoon skin out on a sunny rock to dry out. I didn't know if that was the right way to do things, but it would have to work.  
  
I tasted some of the jerky. It wasn't exactly what you would call flavorful, but it would do. I would survive.  
  
In spite of the grievous nature of my situation, I smiled. I could live, I proved that now, didn't I? Eight years old, I had tamed the Blue Ridge wilderness.  
  
Then I heard the coyote's howl in the distance, and I realized: no one could tame this. All you could do was survive. 


End file.
